


Theft and Generosity: (The cookie flow goes both ways)

by remyllian_fire



Series: Wild Bakery Appears [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baked Goods, Crack, Fluff, M/M, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 05:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1733084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remyllian_fire/pseuds/remyllian_fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where everything is likely a supernatural villain waiting to attack, Stiles must even be wary of baked goods. Honestly, why do his cookies keep disappearing, and where do the replacement cookies keep coming from?!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrayolaDinosaurs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayolaDinosaurs/gifts).



> This is entirely crack. Created because Angela and I got to talking about Hoechlin's introductory episode to 7th Heaven. That is, he walks right into a stranger's home, eats their cookies, hangs out with everybody in the family, and nobody notices that he shouldn't be there. Yeah, so we basically wanted:  
>  **#I want Derek to walk into the Stilinksi kitchen and eat his cookies #chat with Papa Stilinski #and then leaves #doing that once a week #the Sheriff thinks he’s just on his way out from hanging out with Stiles #but Stiles doesn’t even know that he does this**
> 
> This is reposted here from my tumblr, because I had to delete my blog, but I wanted to keep this somewhere safe.

The first time it happens, Stiles is confused, but lets it slide. Derek was probably creeping and wolfing about in his kitchen. Strange nefarious activities were happening, certainly, but it’s easier to pretend he never saw Derek walking out of the kitchen.

"Dad, why are there no cookies left?" he asks instead. It isn’t petulance if Stiles made the cookies; it’s his right.

——-

It doesn’t matter how often or how many cookies are baked in the Stilinski home. It doesn’t even matter who made them. They always disappear within three days.  
When they start vanishing entirely before the day is out, Stiles takes issue with that. But the mystery remains mysterious, and his dad insists that he hasn’t been eating more than usual.

"Well, someone’s eating the cookies. Who’s been around here to eat the cookies?"

He just looks confused, and Stiles gives up.  
——-

The sound of laughter finds its way to Stiles’ room once, loud enough to be heard over his music. His dad’s laughing with someone; someone with a really loud laugh that’s audible even over obnoxiously high levels of bass.

Not in the mood for weird cop humor, he doesn’t interrupt them. Instead, he turns his music up louder and does his homework by the window so he can pretend he’s doing something more entertaining than reading textbooks. He looks out later and sees Derek. By the driveway, not even pretending to be sneaky as he heads toward the road.

"Don’t you have anything better to do than creep around teenagers’ homes?" he shouts out the window.

Derek just keeps walking away, doesn’t even acknowledge Stiles.

"Who are you shouting at?" Stiles startles at the sound of his father’s voice, nearly falls out of the window.

"Derek," Stiles says, like it should be obvious. "He keeps skulking around here."

And there’s that weird, half-confused, half-“don’t want to know” look again.

——-

"Dad, this isn’t even funny anymore. I made those four hours ago. You can’t possibly be eating all of them by yourself.”

He stops in the middle of zipping his jacket, staring blankly at Stiles. How he doesn’t understand the question is a mystery Stiles will never solve.

"Of course I’m not. You know I’m not."

"No, I don’t know that. Dad, Scott is the only person who comes here and hangs out in this kitchen, and I know he hasn’t discovered the latest cookie hiding spot."

There’s a judgmental eyebrow raise and a slight head tilt.

"This has been one of your least funny long-term jokes, Stiles."

"Dad, it’s not a joke, there are cookies on the line here."

"I’ll see tonight after work."

Stiles lets out an exasperated sigh. He just wants a cookie.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles tries to ignore it, he really does. He will absolutely not say anything about the crumbs that inhabit the jar that ought to still have cookies in it. He’s determined not to say a word to his dad about it the next time. Just once. He can endure one day of cookie loss without saying a word.

But it gets weirder, and how is he supposed to deal with something weirder than vanishing cookies? There’s a plastic bag on the kitchen table, filled with a dozen cookies, with a post-it note attached to it. The post-it note just has “Stiles” scrawled on it in sloppy, nearly indecipherable penmanship.

He can’t ask his dad. He told himself he wouldn’t make an issue of it. He can totally do this. The cookies are filled with chocolate and peanut butter and possibly the tears of angels. They have most likely fallen from the heavens. Or, more likely, his dad has become involved in some black market, deeply-illegal-but-totally-worth-it bakery dealings. There’s no other explanation.

\----------

He manages to wait one whole day before asking about the mystery baked goods.

"What are you talking about?" He furrows his brow at Stiles. "I haven’t had time to bake and no, I’m not selling my soul to acquire more for you."

"You obviously don’t understand the gravity of this situation. I need to kiss the hands that made them and beg for enough to last the rest of my life."

"Then talk to the guy who made them for you."

"Didn’t we just discuss this?" Stiles feels like they’re talking in circles. Circles that don’t make any sense and don’t hold any cookie potential. "It isn’t that easy."

He throws his hands in the air, aware of his own melodrama, but leaves nonetheless, his dad gaping after him.

\----------

He starts spying on his father. Well, he spies on their kitchen whenever his dad occupies it. He’s ignored when he’s caught. Maybe he’s just not sneaky enough, but the spying proves ineffective. He discovers nothing. He gives that up rather quickly when it seems to coincide with delayed cookies.

\----------

Two weeks pass and the miracle cookies show up five more times. It’s either the strangest practical joke ever played on him, or some god somewhere is smiling down on him. His life is still filled with werewolves and the trouble they attract, but it’s all a lot more palatable when he has chocolate-peanut butter perfection as a distraction.

His search comes to a screeching halt when he comes home one day to see the most unlikely of people walking out of his front door. Derek Hale, walking out of his kitchen with a handful of cookies. Stiles’ cookies. The cookies he made the night before to pretend he doesn't need the mystery ones to make him happy.

"What are you doing with those?" is all he can think to say. Honestly, another cookie thief is something he cannot handle right now.

"Eating them," is the only response, if the raised eyebrow and slight head shake are discounted, which Stiles does. He always does, because he must.

And then he’s walking away without a second glance. Inside, he finds his dad and can’t keep from asking about it.

"Did you know Derek was just in here?"

"Of course I know."

The words come out with such nonchalance that it’s jarring. Something clicks into place in his thoughts, and Stiles’ jaw drops open.

"What, is he here often? Stealing my cookies?"

"Shut up about the damn cookies for a minute. You don’t have to pretend, Stiles," his dad looks away, can’t make eye contact. "It’s not a problem. You should know that by now."

"What are you talking about?" For once, it’s Stiles who is entirely confused by their conversation.

"I know he’s really here to see you when he comes here; he’s not here to talk to me in the kitchen, no matter how much it's covered up by you two."

There are so many strange things about that sentence that Stiles doesn’t know how to approach it. He can only jump to conclusions that take him farther away from whatever his father is hinting at.

"Oh, God, Derek Hale makes the godlike cookies I swore my undying allegiance to?”


	3. Chapter 3

Confrontations have always been Stiles’ thing. Absolutely something he can handle. That’s why he… definitely can’t talk to Derek about this. Stiles starts his car three times a day with the intention of seeking him out, but always turns it off and goes back to pretending to ignore thoughts of _cookies_ and _Derek_ and _why is Derek hanging out with my dad_.

He forces a game night with Scott and Isaac to distract himself. Scott doesn’t call him out, doesn’t say if he thinks anything is weird. That’s why they’re such good friends; they’re terrific at dismissing each other’s emotional distress at the right times. Isaac, however, is another story. At least he notices something.

"Stiles, why does your kitchen smell like Derek?"

Stiles freezes, doesn’t know how to respond. Scott just looks confused.

"No, it doesn’t," Scott insists. "It smells exactly how his kitchen always does."

"Wait, what does it smell like?" Stiles doesn’t want to have werewolf senses, but now he’s intrigued and wants to know what their wolfy noses tell them. They ignore him.

"If this is what his home always smells like," Isaac says slowly, as if he’s trying to explain quantum entanglement to a preschooler. "Then it always smells like Derek, and Derek is always here."

"No. No, he isn’t," Stiles insists before he remembers that Isaac has been taking "I can hear your heartbeat lying to my wolf ears" lessons, and backtracks. "Okay, fine, he is, but it’s not like I invited him; I think he’s been eating cookies with my dad in secret."

"What I’m hearing you say sounds insane," Isaac says. Scott nods in agreement, but doesn’t chime in. "Is this some sort of metaphor? Are you telling me that Derek is fucking your dad?”

They won’t believe otherwise. Nothing Stiles says convinces them that isn’t true. Apparently, sex is more likely than cookie sharing, and those mental images are not at all wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

Days pass, and they still won’t shut up about it. He receives pitying looks even from the stupid alpha twins, and that’s just pathetic. He doesn’t need pity from werewolves who want to rip the world to shreds.

"The sheriff is a straight, straight man!" he shouts sporadically throughout any given day, but to no avail.

Somehow, and he doesn’t want to know how, doesn’t want to know which of his idiotic friends went and tattled, but Derek finds out. Presumably, anyway, because why else would he be waiting in the Stilinski kitchen? Stiles doesn’t say anything; he opens and shuts his mouth in an attempt to say something,but he can’t, not for a long time. Not with Derek glaring a hole through his head.

"Uh," he finally says, smoothly. "You here for cookie time with my dad?"

And that is the wrong thing to say. Definitely. Derek’s scowl deepens, and Stiles retreats as far away as possible, even if it does back him into a corner.

"All right. You can still have a cookie though, if you want." He doesn’t know why he says these things when he should know that it only makes things worse. "Look, all I told anyone was that I thought you and my dad were both eating my cookies."

Derek still won’t say anything. He’s always been on the stony end of the talkative scale, but this silence, this lack of growling is peculiar for Derek. Stiles rubs a hand over his neck, nervous, and twitches when Derek stands to… take a cookie from the jar and eat it slowly. Stiles continues to watch in silence as Derek reaches into a pocket of that ridiculous, beautiful leather jacket. When he pulls a plastic bag out and waves it in the air, Stiles wants to go inspect and eat the contents, but he won’t give in that easily.

"You," he says simply, and he can’t stop looking between Derek’s face and the hand clutching that glorious bag. "That’s your doing? I mean, I suspected, I inferred, I assumed, but oh my God, this is insane. Why?"

He slumps to the ground, back against the wall, and buries his face in his hands. There’s a lot of movement and rustling that seems too noisy to be made by a werewolf, but he doesn’t look up until his hands are forcibly pulled away from his face, and Derek is much too close.

"You’re an idiot," Derek says. Of course that’s all he has to say.

"Are the cookies for me or my dad?" He can’t help but ask. Maybe he’s asking something else, too, but Derek might not notice that. Hopefully he doesn't catch on. The odd smirk-verging-on-actual-smile that works its way onto Derek’s face is worrisome, though.

"They’re definitely for you, Stiles." He rolls his eyes, like it should be obvious.

"How is that supposed to be so clear to me? Why do you say that like I’m stupid? How would I know?" Derek gives him a look, but Stiles keeps barreling on. "You’re the one who is sneaking around, stealing cookies, hanging out with my dad in secret, leaving cookies behind… what kind of behavior is that? Who even _does_ that kind of crazy thing? What do you expect me to do with that?"

Stiles tries to push himself up, though in doing so he realizes that Derek is still gripping his wrists together with one hand, but he can’t think of a worthy reason to protest that. He opens his mouth, intending to find a way to request the use of his hands again, but he finds he doesn’t mind that much.

"If you’re not going to let me go," Stiles says tentatively, hoping he doesn’t entirely mess this up. "And since, you know, they’re here… would you let me at least have one?"

He doesn't know what he’s hoping for, really. But he certainly doesn’t expect Derek to let go of Stiles’ wrists only to come back with a cookie in hand. He licks one face of it defiantly before offering it to Stiles, who tries his hardest to keep his face devoid of emotion, but opens his mouth to accept it directly. He isn’t even done chewing before Derek’s lips find his own in the messiest, crumbliest kiss he’s ever experienced.

"You can have all the cookies you want," is the soft answer [to a question he barely remembers asking now] against his mouth.

He’s never heard such lovely words.


End file.
